


They have luck and they have spells

by fandomnumbergenerator



Series: Jurassic Times [3]
Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Backstory, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 06:29:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4596435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomnumbergenerator/pseuds/fandomnumbergenerator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Any day spent tagging around after John was bound to go off the rails, but this one had just been weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They have luck and they have spells

John was off buying cigarettes, or hustling bingo, or selling his soul, or whatever it was that John did, and Gaz was sitting in the laundromat watching Anne Marie’s sheets tumble around the industrial dryer and wishing he had a joint.

Any day spent tagging around after John was bound to go off the rails, but this one had just been weird. Culminating in waking up in Anne Marie’s bed, with Anne Marie glowering down at him. “What the fuck. You’re worse than feral cats.” She had lifted the duvet gingerly and dropped on it on the floor. “You guys are washing the sheets. And getting me a new bottle of lube. Or I’m changing the locks. And warding them this time.” It was an open secret that Anne Marie scared the shit out of Gaz, and she looked furious. So he’d scrabbled out of bed and tried to find his jeans as fast as he could. John had just laughed. Which is how Gaz had ended up at the laundromat watching Anne Marie’s sheets.

But the day had started out weird. He’d woken up in Ritchie’s bed to find Ritchie himself asleep at his desk, head on a stack of dogeared Egyptology books, with papers scattered everywhere, diagrams and scrawled notes in Greek, English and Heiratic, with John’s stupid “Master of the Dark Arts” card right there on top. He’d left without waking him, not sure he could handle a morning-after breakfast. Though, from what he’d seen of Ritchie’s kitchen, breakfast probably would have been beer.

It had still been early, and Gaz hadn’t been sure where he was going to go, so he ended up at the rehearsal space, sitting in the dark, drinking John’s crappy magical beer, which was sour and flat and spiced like a Christmas ham. And probably explained a lot about the decline and fall of the Sumerian empire.

Which is where a very displeased John had found him. Someone had pounded up the metal stairs, and slammed the door open, letting in a blinding wedge of light. Gaz had stood up fast, squinting at the back-lit figure that resolved itself into John.

“Where the fuck did you disappear to last night?” John was right up in Gaz’s face, close enough that Gaz had to look up slightly.

“I was hanging out with Ritchie.”

John narrowed his eyes. “Wait, you went home with that weirdo? A junky you met at Molly’s? Are you insane?”

“Says the man who was out in the alley last month giving a handjob to a homeless man who said he was the Lord of the Dance.”

John was in no mood to concede anything. “Unlike you, I’m not a fucking idiot. With big trusting puppy dog eyes. And no sense of self-preservation.”

Gaz was going to argue that he did not have big puppy dog eyes, and that he had at least as much self-preservation as John. But he realized how defensive that sounded, and held his tongue.

John took his silence as assent, and went on. “A man? That’s new.”

“I fucked you.”

John looked confused for a second, then dismissive. “Speaking of, stop fucking drinking my Sumerian beer. I’m pickling goat fetuses in it.”

Gaz dropped the cup in his hand, spraying beer everywhere. “Fuck you. There is not a fucking dead goat stewing in this shit.” And John tried to keep a straight face, to spin out the gag a little longer, and failed.

“Did anyone ever tell you, John, that you’re a complete fucking asshole.” Gaz tried to stay mad, but John’s laughter was contagious.

“But seriously. Stop drinking the fucking beer.”

Gaz, knowing that John was over being mad, gave a noncommittal mmm.

“Anyway, I’ve got something to show you that is going to be extremely useful. Look at my new credit card.” John pulled a shiny black card out of his inner pocket and handed it to Gaz. It was heavy and slick and wreaked of money. And it had JOHN CONSTANTINE in embossed letters.

“Why the fuck does this have your name on it?”

“Look at it again.” And then Gaz started to notice little flaws with the card, the American Express centurion’s hat was all wrong. Actually, there were two centurions on it, and it wasn’t black and white, but in gaudy color. He stared at it for one more second before he noticed it was a jack of diamonds.

Gaz looked at John in awe. “Where did you get this?”

“It’s just a playing card. A drop of blood. And then you need to sell it.” John beamed at him, preening a bit.

“This deserves a celebratory drink. Or five. And you’re paying.”

John smirked. “Can’t be Molly’s. She doesn’t take credit cards.”

Which is how they’d ended up playing rock stars at Punk, drinking Cristal at noon. John with his hair and his leather jacket and his charisma. No one doubted he belonged there. And Gaz was safely in John’s bubble, protected by the sheer implausibility. Even when they were singing a drunken duet of Helter Skelter, Scouse accents cranked all the way up. Though, after that, they were, firmly but politely, escorted out

Which is how they ended up back at Anne Marie’s, with John in the kitchen singing “I did it my way”, and making some belated breakfast. John had learned how to make fried eggs when he was eight, and they were still basically the only thing he could cook.

So they were sitting on the bed eating delicious, greasy, runny eggs, when John, out of nowhere, said, “Did he have a big cock?”

“What the fuck kind of question is that?” But John was still looking expectant, so Gaz mumbled, “I mean, you know, normal size?”

“Did you like getting fucked?” John gave him a big, stupid wink, and Gaz could feel himself blushing.

“No. I mean, that’s not what we did. Why are you being such a dick about this? It’s not like you’ve ever turned down a blowjob. I distinctly remember a girl with tentacles. Or, maybe that was the time we got that bad weed. Did she really have tentacles?”

“Yes, she had tentacles. The drugs are really cooking your brain, you know that? And, actually I am quite a connoisseur of blowjobs. I could give you some pointers, if you wanted. Just show me what you and the weirdo did.”

“No. Absolutely not. That’s a terrible idea.”

“No, terrible was the time you thought you were buying Aleister Crowley’s ashes and it turned out it to be crack. This is good wholesome fun. And educational.” And then John was on his back with his hips canted up, tugging his stupid, patched, duck taped, resewn, unwashed, too tight jeans down. It was surprisingly hard to say no.

At first, John wasn’t actually hard, but he was smirking at Gaz like it was a dare, so he pushed John’s knees up, and licked a stripe up the crack of his ass.

“Advanced.” John was clearly trying to sound mocking, but missing by a mile, because he was grinding back into Gaz’s tongue. Gaz had his cheek squashed into John’s perineum, and as he licked and prodded, he could feel John’s cock start to twitch, hear his breathing go ragged, a hint of a half-swallowed moan.

And it was hotter than Gaz would have expected. John had always been able to throw himself into things completely, without overthinking and without embarrassment. Gaz looked up and saw him, eyes closed, throat bared, rubbing his head on the bed, like he could burn off the excess sensation.

“Hey Gaz.” His voice rough. “You wanna fuck?” Gaz just nodded. And then John was scrambling over the the bunched up duvet and rummaging in Anne Marie’s drawer for condoms and lube.

Which he dropped in front of Gaz before getting onto hands and knees. He looked over his shoulder and found Gaz frozen, staring at him. He gave an impatient get-on-with-it roll of his hand and made a wriggling gesture with two fingers. Because, of course, John was in charge of this too.

So Gaz smeared the lube on his fingers, and without much ceremony, pushed two into John’s ass. John made a low groan that probably meant it felt good, though who could tell with John. Gaz moved his fingers slowly and he could feel the vice-like tightness start to relax. John looked back at him with another get-on-with-it look, then rested his head on one arm, his other hand between his legs, cupping his cock.

Gaz rolled on the condom and slathered his cock with lube, dripping goo everywhere and trying the wipe his hands off on the sheet. He pushed in slowly. Resistance at first and then John pushing back hard against him.

Gaz pulled out slowly, and John’s breath caught as he pulled the head of his cock out and pushed back in, so he did it again. Slowly, experimentally, trying to see what John reacted to.

And then John was rocking back into him, setting a faster pace, stroking himself in the same rhythm. John was getting tighter around him, making an arpeggio of whining pants, until he cried out as he came. And Gaz, who had been holding himself still, trying to hold himself back, was dragged into his own orgasm by John’s.

John collapsed onto his stomach, and Gaz followed him down, his chest pressed against John’s back. He kissed the back of his neck, and rested his forehead between John’s shoulders for a second, before he pulled out

John, still laying splayed on his stomach, and half muffled by the bed, told Gaz,”Get me a towel.” Gaz found a couple dish towels in the kitchen. Wiped himself off with one and handed the rest to John, who made a half-hearted attempt to clean himself up.

Gaz lay down on the bed, still trying to catch his breath. John curled up next to him, and Gaz closed his eyes for a minute to try to get his head back together.

Which is how Anne Marie found them asleep and half naked in her bed, surrounded by discarded clothes and dirty dishes.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to ekbe_vile for constructive criticism. It isn't their fault I didn't follow any of it.
> 
> The title is from the traditional gambling song “Jack of Diamonds”.


End file.
